Memories haunted Elijah like an ancient curse etched into his skin.
No matter how he tried, they seemed impossible to wash away.
Even stripped of his former life, twelve-year-old Elijah somehow knew he had once fought spirits.
The nightmares reminded him, again and again, of what he had done.
Sometimes people burned in flames, screaming his name. Other times, blood spurted from torn limbs as they rattled for another breath of oxygen.
They came to him in distorted fragments, like scattered beads of broken glass, and every time he tried to pick and string them together, he would end up hurting himself.
The dark, wispy shadows took great pleasure in tormenting him.
They were mad at him, Elijah could tell that much. Each time he witnessed a torturous death in his dreams, the shadows lunged at him with barely contained fury.
Their fangs bared, desperate to shred his soul.
However, for some reason, they couldn't reach him. They never did.
